


The Training Scenario

by JaneSkazki



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 18:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneSkazki/pseuds/JaneSkazki
Summary: Worf runs a training scenario based on a mission from the logs of a previous Enterprise.





	The Training Scenario

Training Scenario  
By Skazki  
Lieutenant Worf snorted and the ensign took a step backwards. To his credit, he immediately thumped his foot down and took back the ground he'd given, but the message was clear. He was not going to underestimate the threat posed by a full grown Klingon warrior.  
The odd thing was, Worf reflected, that on the Enterprise, a full grown Klingon warrior was generally regarded as posing about as much threat as Data's cat.  
"The captain has ordered me to ensure this landing party is properly prepared for whatever may occur on the planet below," he announced. "Where is the other junior member of the party?"  
The ensign blinked surprise. "The captain has done what?"  
The lights of the briefing room suddenly caught on something metallic, and Worf registered that the ensign was wearing a Bajoran earring of somewhat unusual design. The silver chain looped from the point where the ear was pierced up to the clasp at the back of the ear in the usual way, but the ornament dangling below the lobe of the ear looked familiarly terran, raising echoes of the province of that planet where Worf had himself been raised. It was, in short, a hammer and sickle, a symbol still half-ruefully revered in modern Russia. His own foster mother had possessed a few antique books that bore the mark.  
"Why are you wearing jewellery, Ensign?" the security chief demanded. "You do not appear to be a Bajoran."  
"I never said that I was Bajoran," the ensign claimed defiantly. Then he looked a little embarrassed. "Ensign Ro gave it to me."  
"Ensign Ro gave it to you?" Worf repeated slowly. "Ensign Ro cannot have given it to you."  
"Who are you?" the ensign suddenly demanded. "And what business do you have on the Enterprise, talking as if you were an officer on this ship, you filthy son of a Klingon bitch?"  
He squared up to fight, which impressed the Klingon. This man was nearly twenty centimetres shorter than the security chief, and probably massed in at seventy pounds less, but one could almost imagine that he was indeed seeking a physical confrontation.  
To give him one would be a breach of discipline. Worf was, after all, his superior officer, in some sense.  
"Computer, freeze program."  
The ensign obligingly turned into a statue, his expression trapped at a peak of outrage that matched his freedom-fighter's jewellery.  
"Arch."  
That reassuring outpost of twenty-fourth century hardware reasserted itself in the unfamiliar, cramped confines of the constitution class starship. Worf strode over to the intercomm.  
"Geordi?"  
"Yes? What can I do for you, Worf?" The Chief Engineer's tone was decidedly off-duty.  
"I am running one of the new training scenarios, as you suggested."  
"Great fun, aren't they?"  
"I believe I have detected a malfunction," Worf contradicted icily. "One of the holocharacters appears to have knowledge of one of our officers. I was under the impression that these scenarios were taken from historical missions."  
"What version are you running?" Geordi asked.  
"Enterprise-GammaII-1.02," Worf quoted  
"Well, there you are then," Geordi said, as if refering to something Worf should have worked out for himself. "Switch to the 1.00 version."  
"I will do so," Worf confirmed. "Computer..." He looked past the arch at the ensign. A Klingon warrior never walked away from a fight. To do so would be dishonourable. "Resume program."  
Instantly, he was back in the cramped briefing room. The ensign was watching him, bristling aggression. Worf walked round his would be opponent, and the ensign turned too, watching his every move.  
The door slid open, noisily. A woman entered, clad in the skimpy uniform of her day. She was even slighter than the ensign, but had more presence, more fire in her. She also had lieutenant's braid.  
"You must be Lieutenant Worf. Welcome aboard."  
The ensign glanced between the two of them. "He's a *Klingon*," he hissed at the newcomer.  
"I know," she said smoothly. "At least, strictly, he's a Klingonoid. Just as there are humanoids inside the Klingon Empire..."  
"As slaves," the ensign interrupted, "and exploited minorities."  
The woman rolled her eyes. "...so there are peoples of Klingon genotype in the Federation. Lieutenant Worf is the first such citizen of the Federation to serve in Starfleet. May I introduce myself: I'm Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, from Earth, and I see you've already made friends with Ensign Chekov here, also from Earth."  
Worf wasn't sure if she was making fun of someone, and retreated into a frigid, but polite nod of acknowledgement. "Why has the captain selected you for this mission?" he asked bluntly.  
Uhura nodded at Chekov, to indicate he should answer. He hesitated. "An answer will require disclosure of classified information."  
"Lieutenant Worf is our new Security Chief, Pavel. He is allowed access to classified information. He is not the enemy."  
The ensign narrowed his eyes and took a moment to compose his answer, presumably censoring it as far as was possible without refusing to answer altogether. "Gamma II is the location of automated communications and astrogation installations. We are carrying out a routine check. Since I am a navigator, and Lieutenant Uhura is Communications Officer of the Enterprise..."  
"Surely it would be more efficient to send a team of engineers," Worf interrupted.  
For the first time, there was a flicker of hostility on the woman's face. It made her immeasurably more attractive. Worf dismissed that thought almost as it formed.  
"Captain Kirk believes in giving his officers all round experience in maintaining and operating equipment connected with their specialities," she countered. "He also recognises the value of varied landing party experience for officers who aspire to command responsibilities."  
Worf considered her words. "That makes sense. If there are technical problems, you can call on the engineering department as required. I will order two security guards to bring our numbers to five..."  
"Security guards?" Uhura repeated. "The captain didn't order guards."  
"Perhaps he did not feel it was necessary to tell me how to do my job," Worf agreed. "You and Ensign Chekov will concentrate on reviewing the condition of the installations, and my guards will ensure your safety."  
Worf folded his arms and took a step back, as if giving up the stage to someone else.  
Uhura raised a brow. The Klingon lowered two back at her.  
"Our safety from what?" Uhura prompted.  
"Gamma II has no life forms larger than a amoeba," Chekov pointed out.  
Worf uttered a noise half way between a sigh and a growl. "We will ensure your safety from the unexpected." He scowled at Chekov. "And in view of your youth and inexperience, we will most likely be called on to protect you from yourself."  
"I agree that we should take the two guards," Chekov conceded, lamb-like. He flashed a wicked smile at Uhura. "Otherwise, I may kill Lieutenant Worf."  
Uhura frowned disapprovingly as the door to the briefing room opened and a third human entered. Worf noted three rings of braid on the tunic cuffs, the absence of visible weapons, and a muscular physique that shared the unfortunate Klingon characteristic of developing a slight corpulence in early middle age.  
He moved his gaze to the man's face as he came to attention. Neither of the other officers altered their stance. Worf made a mental note to spend a few hours drilling Ensign Chekov in basic Starfleet manners.  
"Captain Kirk," he acknowledged  
"Lieutenant Worf. We're delighted to have you aboard, but... I'm not sure I need you for this mission. Are you aware of any specific risks on Gamma II?"  
"There are reports of Klingon incursions in the sector," Chekov said.  
Kirk turned a withering gaze on the ensign. "Get rid of that damned earring, Chekov, now."  
The ensign obeyed instantly, slipping the offending item into his boot. Kirk, meanwhile, had transformed his expression into a smile for his new Security Officer. "Then perhaps we do need a Security presence. If no one attacks us, he can help you to recalibrate the navigation beacons, Chekov. These things always go quicker with two pairs of hands. I'll help Lieutenant Uhura. I'll meet you in the transporter room in... Is there something wrong, Mister Worf?"  
"You intend to accompany us, Captain?"  
"Yes, Mister Worf." A slight narrowing of Kirk's eyes alerted the Klingon to potential trouble. Picard's expression when Riker challenged him over his inclusion in an away team was very similar. But Picard never left the Enterprise in order to service hardware on slime-infested rock balls.  
It occurred to Worf that there might be some hidden agenda on this mission, some factor that he'd overlooked in reading through the scenario's intro screen.  
"May I ask why, Captain?" he asked, with un-Klingon diffidence.  
Kirk smiled again. "I feel like some fresh air."  
The Security Officer bit back a growl.  
****  
Forty seconds later, but half an hour further into the scenario, Worf had checked out his phaser and his spare phaser, and was engaged in a quick refresher course on the cumbersome communications devices Starfleet had been forced to work with seventy five years earlier. The ability to miniaturise subspace transmitters was a comparatively recent development.  
The phasers, in contrast, were little different to contemporary Starfleet hand weapons. If anything, they seemed a little more solid. Modern phasers were virtually useless in hand to hand combat. These had more weight.  
Two Security ensigns stood silently waiting for the rest of the landing party to join them in the transporter room. Both were human, both graded highly in manual weapons accuracy, unarmed combat and general physical fitness. Both seemed to share Chekov's wariness of Klingons. They looked enormously relieved when the arrival of the rest of the away team raised the Human to Klingon ratio in the transporter room to a more favourable six to one.  
Kirk blinked at them. He looked a question at Worf.  
"My Security team, Captain," Worf stated, his heart sinking already.  
"Of course." Kirk paused for a moment. "Obviously the briefing document for this mission neglected to mention the environmental and... ah... political sensitivity of Gamma II. We really shouldn't take any more personnel than are absolutely essential... I'm sure you and I can provide adequate security cover between us."  
"As you wish, Captain," Worf answered, without missing a beat. He turned to his men. "You won't be required."  
When he turned back, Uhura gave him a sympathetic, and most unwelcome, smile. Worf felt his blood churn. Not only had Kirk countermanded his Security Chief's unimpeachable orders, he'd tried to be tactful about it. Worf took a very deep breath.  
"You'll find I don't always do things according to the book, Mister Worf," Kirk said, in a perfectly friendly tone that made the Klingon's teeth ache. "You'll get used to it. Energise, Scotty."  
For a system based largely on transporter technology, the holodeck always made a poor fist of simulating a beam-down. Somehow, you always knew that you were standing still and the computer was changing the scenery. On this occasion, the computer didn't even get the scenery right. It also added a kick to the simulated transport that knocked the whole party off their feet.  
"This is not Gamma II," Worf announced, picking himself up.  
"Captain, what happened?" Chekov asked. Worf glanced at the ensign suspiciously. Why would Chekov assume that Kirk had all the answers?  
"Must be a transporter malfunction."  
Worf awarded Kirk full marks for stating the obvious. Perhaps Chekov was simply employed to ask leading questions... or perhaps the scenario was badly scripted.  
"That was a rough trip," Chekov went on, dusting down his uniform tunic. Worf looked around him. They were within a fenced enclosure, on a level surface marked with a strange, three pronged design.  
"You're right, Worf, this isn't Gamma II. Look at the colour of that sky." Kirk was shading his eyes as he peered into the glare.  
Worf had already dismissed the likelihood of an aerial attack on the landing party and was taking a good look around the enclosure. There were rocky outcrops between lengths of metal railing. Shadowed hollows suggested doorways on three sides. Worf began to back away towards the fence, so that he could watch all three at once.  
"This is the craziest landing pad I ever saw." Uhura was the last to regain her feet, and made a great performance of brushing off her brief skirt and legs.  
She was correct. It looked not unlike a layout for an abstract strategy game of some kind. The design was bright yellow. Three benches were positioned around the central area, as if for spectators. Three, three and three... Worf noted.  
"That's a trinary sun," Kirk said.  
Worf glanced at Chekov, the navigator. The ensign frowned, clearly accessing his mental list of trinary stars in close proximity to Gamma II. Then he shrugged. "But Captain, if we're not on Gamma II, then where are we?"  
Worf uttered a mild Klingon obscenity. Clearly, the ensign *was* only present to provide cues for Kirk. But then the scenario would have been developed from the official logs of the incident -- Kirk's logs.  
"That's what I'd like to know," Kirk said, pulling out his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise." He paused. "Dead."  
"Mine too," Chekov agreed, in his capacity as Greek chorus.  
Worf could hardly be bothered to point out to the two of them that their lack of communicators was no longer the most pressing problem they faced, but he forced himself. "Captain, we appear to be under attack."  
As he'd expected, the assault had issued from all three doors simultaneously. Worf wasted no time deciding which race any of them belonged to. He pulled his phaser, only to throw it down in disgust a moment later. He picked out the largest assailant and threw himself at it. Chekov, for some reason, had adopted the same strategy. The two Starfleet officers collided. Worf formed an impression of unkempt brown hair and rotting teeth and decided to leave it to Chekov. He turned away and found himself face to face with a small gorn. The creature commanded his whole attention. Whoever had deactivated their phasers hadn't seen fit to treat both sides in the fight evenly. The gorn had a spiked club, and was quite prepared to use it.  
Worf was reduced to dodging and weaving, his mammalian speed giving him an advantage, but not enough to throw the reptile off completely.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware that Chekov's dentally challenged opponent had grasped the ensign in a rib-crushing hold and was simply ignoring his prisoner's kicks and punches. Chekov's invective was also water off a duck's back. The giant wore a complacent grin. Uhura was battling defiantly against two larger women, and losing. The captain, though, appeared to be getting the better of the tall, apparently human blond with whom he was trading punches.  
The spiked club flashed out at Worf and he dodged, only to have the Gorn slam the side of its armoured head into his more fragile skull. He stumbled, a clawed leg kicked his feet away from under him, and Worf collapsed to his knees. He pulled himself back to standing in time to see Kirk deck his opponent, but even as the captain turned to come to the aid of his officers, the smaller of the two women had left Uhura and swung the shaft of her lethal spear into Kirk's side. He fell and she shoved the point of her weapon at his throat.  
The bitter taste of defeat flooded Worf's mouth. It had been inevitable, however. They were outnumbered, and they'd fought as individuals, not as a team. A most basic error.  
Error or not, Kirk seemed undaunted. Now the fight was over, his eyes were taking in all the details of their attackers, and checking out his people too. He was just about to speak when a further being appeared, unheralded, on the playing area.  
It was humanoid, bald and garishly costumed. A stark black cape fell from its shoulders to the ground, trimmed with an eccentric red metallic halo at the back of the neck The only feature the humanoid shared with its fellows was a white metal collar at its throat, adorned with a coloured triangular jewel under each ear. It spoke. "Excellent, Captain Kirk. Although we expected strength and competitive spirit, we are greatly pleased."  
Kirk's eyes met Worf's across the arena. "Are any of you hurt?" the captain asked, as if the being didn't exist.  
Uhura tried out her joints. "I don't think so, Captain."  
"Nobody's hurt," Worf reported. Like any good security chief, he monitored the fighting fitness of his troops constantly and almost unconciously.  
"Yet."  
The Klingon turned and looked at Chekov. Still dwarfed by the neanderthal, Chekov was simmering with unspent aggression. Worf showed his teeth in silent approval. The ensign took a step away from the Security Chief and back towards the enemy.  
"Admirable, Chekov, admirable," the new arrival enthused. "You also, Uhura. Your spirit is as great as the captain's. And you, Worf... all of you, it will be hard to choose three from among you. I can see you could all prove invaluable here." He drew himself up imposingly. "I am Galt, master thrall of the planet Triskelion. I have been sent to welcome you."

"What did he mean, that it would be hard to choose three of us?" Chekov demanded as their captors hustled them along narrow corridors carved out of rock.  
"Three suns, an arena with three-fold symmetry, a planet called Triskelion... I guess three's a lucky number with these people," Kirk hazarded with deceptive lightness.  
"We were originally only planning to beam down three people," Uhura reminded them.  
Worf glowered. "Had I brought my full security team, there would have been six of us," he said grimly.  
Kirk shrugged as he was pushed up against the wall of the corridor which had now opened out into a respectable underground chamber. Two of the natives forced his arms into cuffs above his head and he watched as the rest of his landing party were similarly restrained. "Somehow, I don't think this is going to be a numbers game."  
Having rendered them helpless, their captors now brought out collars, like the ones they were wearing themselves. One was fastened round each prisoner's neck. Chekov twisted his head desperately, earning a boxed ear for his trouble. Uhura just bit her lip and tolerated the assault with icy dignity.  
"There, Captain," Galt said. "Now you are prepared for your training."  
"How do you know our names?" Kirk demanded.  
"The providers were expecting you, Captain. They arranged your transportation."  
"These providers of yours..."  
"Correction, Captain," Galt interrupted. "The providers are not ours, we are theirs."  
"What do they want from us?" Kirk asked impatiently.  
Galt eyed his prisoners impassively. "You are to be trained, of course. What other use is there for thralls?"  
"Thralls?" Kirk echoed, outraged.  
"Release us!" Worf had lost patience. Their position was humiliating. He was tempted to kick the egg-headed alien, but Galt was standing just out of range. "We are officers of the Federation Starship Enterprise. Not your thralls."  
"You must be mistaken," Kirk said, more diplomatically.  
"There has been no mistake," Galt told him. "Your old titles mean nothing here, Captain. You are thralls now. You will be taken to the training enclosure."  
The restraining bands around their wrists sprung obediently open. Chekov, still eyeing the natives with ill-concealed resentment, rubbed at his arms and flexed his shoulders. Kirk gave no hint that being shackled to the wall had bothered him at all, an example which Worf approved and followed.  
"Come," Galt ordered, obviously expecting them to obey him as mechanically as the devices that had held them. "Places have been prepared for you."  
"We're not going anywhere until we have some information. Who are you? What is this place?"  
"I am Galt, the master thrall. This place is the planet Triskelion. You will spend the rest of your lives here."  
"Well, I did get one new piece of information," Kirk muttered ruefully as the thralls of Triskelion herded their new brothers before them.  
***  
The trip to the training enclosure was long enough for Worf to fall in with Chekov.  
"What will your ship be doing to find us?"  
The ensign gave him an odd look.  
"I mean, what will *our* ship be doing to find us?"  
Chekov thought about it. "I expect that Mister Spock and Doctor McCoy will be arguing. They usually do."  
The Klingon was prevented from making any reply when the blond male thrall pushed him sharply in the back and took up a position between him and the navigator, presumably to stop any plotting. Worf decided that Chekov was engaging in diversionary tactics. If they talked about the Enterprise, these people might overhear and anticipate any rescue attempt. As Worf considered this, however, it also occurred to him that the providers, with their ability to know names without asking, and to abduct living beings over a distance of many light years, were going to be formidable adversaries, however carefully everyone watched their tongues.  
The corridor widened considerably, and the lighting brightened. As they rounded a corner, archways, blocked by bars, became visible.  
"These are your quarters," Galt announced. "Open, thralls."  
Each of four guards moved purposefully forward and did something to control panels, causing the bars to slide aside. Each door bore a name. Worf wasn't sure whether to be chilled or amused by the detail. He glanced round to see if his fellow officers intended to walk tamely into their allotted accommodation, just in time to catch a slight widening of the eyes from Kirk, and to see Chekov and Uhura tense in response.  
As if a starting pistol had fired, all three of them threw punches at the nearest guard and sprinted, with Worf a fraction of a second behind.  
Immediately, a stranglehold clamped around Worf's neck, followed by searing waves of pain that threatened to burst his head open.  
He struggled to stay on his feet, and lost. As he went down, he was aware of someone screaming.  
The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving only a dull ache of abused nerve endings. Worf picked himself up, seething at such a cowardly method of control. He cast Galt a look of contempt, keeping his head high. Uhura too composed herself quickly, as she straightened her skimpy uniform for the fourth time in less than twenty minutes.  
"That was foolish, Captain. Escape is quite impossible, as demonstrated by your collars of obedience. Return to your quarters."  
Kirk tugged his tunic into place with a gesture that reminded Worf sharply of Picard, and walked into his cell with some of that other captain's dignity too. Following his example, the remaining three officers let the doors of their cages slide shut on them. All of them immediately turned to look through the bars as the thralls walked away.  
Chekov's cell was directly opposite Worf's, on the same side of the corridor as Uhura's. Kirks was next door to Worf's, but in the other direction.  
Worf looked at Chekov, automatically trying out the strength of the steel bars in the door with his hands. The ensign looked back.  
"Captain, the Enterprise... They will be trying to find us, won't they?" the Russian asked hesitantly.  
Worf smiled to himself. The navigator's bravado was all for the enemy then.  
"They'll be trying, but where do they look? We're here... and we don't know where it is." Uhura too seemed a little downhearted.  
"This system's star is a trinary." Kirk seemed to be thinking aloud. "That limits it a bit, but we're a long way from the Enterprise, if we're even in the same dimension."  
"And of course, the Enterprise doesn't know we're orbiting a trinary star," Chekov said, his voice soft but impatient.  
"Another dimension?" Worf asked, sotto voce. He'd heard rumours that the original Enterprise had experienced something of the kind, but those missions did not appear in the official records. Leaving the reference in the simulation had been a mistake on someone's part.  
Chekov shrugged. "It happens."  
"Someone is coming," Worf said, straining to look along the corridor. It was only the blond man who had originally fought with Kirk. He was carrying a tray of metal dishes which he took directly to Uhura's cell. She stared at him through the bars. Worf felt a warning prickle of discomfort, not so much at perceived danger as at his certain powerlessness to help if danger there was.  
"I am your drill thrall," the man said. "I am called Lars."  
"What do you want from her?" Kirk demanded. It was hard for Worf to see into Uhura's cell, so he could imagine that Kirk was feeling even more helpless.  
"That is not your concern," Lars answered. "Your drill thralls will attend you presently. There is little time." The bars in front of him slid open and he pushed impatiently into Uhura's cell. The door closed again behind him.  
"What are you doing?" Uhura squeaked.  
All three of her fellow prisoners looked at each other, assuming the worst.  
"I have been selected for you," they heard Lars explain. There was a muffled scream and a crash as the tray was overturned. Worf could no longer see anything. Uhura and her attacker had moved out of his field of vision, but he could hear that someone was putting up a fight.  
"Lieutenant, are you all right?" Kirk shouted, pressing up against the bars himself as if he could squeeze between them. He pushed one arm out into the corridor. "Uhura! Lieutenant, are you all right? Lieutenant? What's happening to Lieutenant Uhura?"

A loud thud seemed to indicate that furniture had become involved in the dispute. A moment later, Lars came back to the door, adjusting his jacket and looking both annoyed and flustered. "It is not allowed to refuse selection," he said. Uhura moved closer to the door, breathing heavily, and he hastily let himself out.  
Before anyone could say anything else, another of their original assailants appeared bringing food. A typical terran beauty, in Worf's opinion, she had long legs and ash blonde hair to below her shoulders. Her silver costume was brief, reminiscent of Klingon depictions of warrior goddesses, although such a divinity would have carried a long, two handed sword, rather than the short dagger this female sported on her belt.  
"Step away from the door," she snapped, having passed both Worf and Chekov to get to the captain's cell. She stepped inside, once Kirk had obeyed. "Come," Worf heard her order. "It is the nourishment interval."  
Chekov, evidently deciding that if the captain had any troubles with this female, he would probably enjoy dealing with them unassisted, turned his attention in the other direction. "Uhura? Are you okay?"  
"Fine," the lieutenant growled. Then after a moment, she said apologetically. "Sorry. It's not your fault. But if he tries that on again, he'll be walking funny for at least a month."  
The second of the two females now made her appearance. Worf eyed her cautiously. Since he had not been part of the original scenario, this was probably the thrall who had been selected for Chekov. It was just as well. Such a woman could be a distraction.  
She was of average human height, for a female, although her colouring and facial characteristics indicated that she was probably not human anyway. She had a mass of hair that was of almost the same peachy tone as her skin. She was not skinny, like the other woman, and the way she carried herself, and the way she had fought earlier, struck Worf as dignified and feminine.  
He was pleased when she stopped outside his cell and waved him back before entering. He retreated to a bench and sat down. She began to lay out dishes of food on a table.  
"You have been selected for me?" he asked, trying to sound casual.  
"I am only your drill thrall," she replied in a surprisingly low and sensuous voice. "I have brought you nourishment. It is a nice name, Woof."  
The hairs on the back of Worf's neck stood up. "Worf," he corrected her.  
"Worf," she tried again, getting it almost right this time. "That is a very nice name. I am called Tamoon." She sat down next to him on the bench.  
"I am... honoured to meet you," the Klingon said awkwardly. The whole situation on this planet was so absurd, he didn't know whether to apply human or Klingon manners, or no manners at all. He curled his lip slightly.  
She batted her eyes at him. "You are a fine specimen. I like you better than the others. I will instruct you well, so my provider will take you."  
"That is very kind of you," Worf said.  
Tamoon cast a meaningful look at the bunk in the far corner of the cell. "If my provider is pleased, we may even be selected for each other."  
Worf considered. To encourage her interest in him would be pleasant, and possibly useful. But it would also be dishonourable. He would allow Captain Kirk to pursue that tactic. As far as he could remember, it was what the man was famous for.  
He stood up and went over to the table. As he did so, he realised that Chekov too now had a visitor. The ensign's door was just sliding open to admit a slight figure with bobbed, brunette hair. This female -- evidently all the men were paired with female drill thralls, and vice versa -- wore silk harem pants and a cropped, buttoned blouse, both patterned in bright swirls of emerald green and lavender. She turned as she entered the cell, and gave Worf one of her best, bad-girl grins.  
"My name is Laren. I am your drill thrall."  
Chekov jumped up from sitting on his bench and came over to the table, helping her to unload the tray. "Have you been selected for me?"  
"You guessed. Shall we just skip the nourishment stuff?  
"Freeze program!" Worf ordered peremptorily. "Ensign Ro, what are you doing in this simulation?"  
After a moment, he realised the Bajoran was as frozen as everyone else.  
"Computer," he tried again, "explain the presence of Ensign Ro Laren."  
"The holo-character, Ro Laren, was incorporated in Version 1.02 of program Enterprise Gamma II on stardate 43568 by Ensign Ro Laren. The holo-character is based on physical and psychological profiles of Ensign Ro Laren."  
"Why would Ensign Ro write herself into a training simulation?" Worf wondered aloud. He received no answer. "Computer, resume program."  
Chekov looked down at the food, then up at Ro's face. "If we're going to escape, we'll need to be in good condition."  
"Escape is impossible," Ro said. "I've tried. These damn collars..." She tugged at the ironware around her neck. "But there are compensations." Ro's expression at this point, invisible to Worf, was obviously suggestive, because Chekov glanced at his bunk and blushed.  
"How do the collars work?" he asked, rather than taking her up on the offer.  
"We all wear them. They show which provider you belong to. That's why yours is white. You won't be vended until your training is finished. Then they'll auction you to the highest bidders."  
Chekov nodded. He sat down at the table and examined his food. "So you belong to the yellow team, and... that man, Galt, he doesn't belong to anyone?"  
"I suppose he belongs to all of them," Ro answered doubtfully. She sat down on the bench, frowning. "You're wasting your time if you think you can work out a way to escape. You can't take a step out of line. Haven't you felt it yet?"  
"Yes," Chekov answered shortly. "So, you recommend that I simply spend the rest of my life here... doing what?"  
"What the rest of us do. Train, eat, sleep, fight."  
"Train for what?"  
"Train to fight. Fight to win. Also..." Ro stood up again and walked over behind Chekov. She placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed.  
He turned to look over his shoulder at her. "What are you doing?"  
"You've been selected for me. It is not allowed to refuse selection, Chekov."  
He grunted as she dug her fingers in.  
Worf scowled. The ensign should never have allowed an enemy to gain a dominant position in this manner.  
"You can not force my cooperation," Chekov told her from between clenched teeth.  
"That may be true," Ro agreed. "But Loog can."  
"Loog?"  
"You must have seen him earlier. Big guy. Permanent bad hair day. Gruesome teeth."  
"What about him?" Chekov asked cautiously.  
"They haven't selected him for anyone. He's too stupid. They don't want him to breed. Sometimes, you can hear him howling in his cell at night. If you don't cooperate with me... they might just give you to him instead." She let her hands fall.  
"Oh," Chekov answered.  
Worf realised that the ensign's slightly anxious face reminded him of Alexander. "Chekov," he said.  
The ensign came over to the bars and looked hopefully through them at the Klingon. "Yes?"  
"She is familiar with this place, and it seems she has at least considered possible methods of escape. Humour her. Unless you find such a course of action objectionable."  
Chekov grinned. "Yes, sir."  
He turned back to the Bajoran. "What did you say your name was, Miss?"  
Ro gave Worf a knowing look. "Laren." She took Chekov by the hand and led him towards the back of his cell. Worf sat down at his table, back to the door, and examined his rations. Tamoon smiled. She wasn't talkative. He liked that.  
He picked up a fork and almost dropped it as a klaxon sounded.

"The exercise interval," Tamoon explained. She held out a black copy of the harness she wore herself. "This is your training harness. Put it on."  
***  
The thralls of Triskelion fought, it seemed, with just about every hand held weapon so far invented. Had they not all been equipped with hands, the variety would probably have been even greater.  
For this training exercise, however, they were instructed to use the spears the two women had carried earlier. Worf was a little annoyed at being allocated what seemed to be a 'woman's' weapon, until he saw how competently Lars wielded it. The shaft was surprisingly heavy, the pronged head light and razor sharp. Only the arrangement of inverted coat hooks at the base of the shaft failed to impress the Klingon. He thought it might have come in handy for battling a crazed squid.  
The arena was crowded, with four pairs of combatants sharing the limited space. During the first couple of minutes, Worf received more bruises from the ill-timed actions of his colleagues than from the assaults of his training thrall.  
He wondered if Kirk was considering a bid for freedom. The Starfleet officers were at least armed now. He spared a moment from matching Tamoon's blows to look around. Loog stood at the side of the arena, expressionless, bearing a net and a bull whip. Kirk seemed to require all his concentration to deal with his own thrall's activities. And they all still wore the collars. Perhaps now was not the time for escape.  
"Halt!" Galt's order brought all eight to a full stop. The natives held their own spears upright and gestured to their trainees to do the same.  
The Master Thrall strode into the centre of the arena, ushering before him a tall, dark man whose hands were bound behind his back. Despite his dark colouring the man appeared flushed. He gazed into the mid-distance, ignoring the other thralls.  
"This thrall was slow in obeying a command," Galt announced. "For his punishment, he will be practice target. As you charge, you will strike the practice target when you pass. You will begin, Uhura."  
There was a moment of stunned silence.  
"No!" the communications officer cried, not concealing the depth of her revulsion for the order.  
"It is not allowed to refuse a training exercise," Galt informed her.  
"I don't care whether it's allowed or not. I will not do it."  
Worf took a step forward, fearful for the lieutenant's safety if she persisted in her defiance. He caught Kirk's eye though, and stopped. "None of us will do it, Galt," Kirk said.  
"It is part of your training. The providers wish it."  
"The devil with the providers!"  
"Cossacks!"  
Worf narrowed his eyes. He was tempted to echo his colleagues, but preferred to wait and break bones rather than hurl insults.  
Then Galt's eyes glowed white and the collars delivered their torture. It was less this time, but Worf could still see how it almost brought his human companions to their knees. He noticed Ro slip her arm around Chekov's shoulders, steadying the ensign. He shook her off angrily.  
"We have been tolerant because you are newcomers," Galt continued. "But I see you must be given a lesson. Loog will administer correction. Uhura, take your place on the triad."  
Lars ushered her forward, while Chekov and Kirk were both stayed from protest by the warning hands of their training thralls. Tamoon did not move.  
"Tie her!" Galt ordered, and Lars pulled Uhura's hands behind her back and started to fasten them.  
"No!" It was Kirk's turn to speak out. "No. I'm responsible for the actions of my people. I demand to see the Providers."  
"Captain," Worf growled in an undertone. Kirk shook his head minutely and the Klingon subsided into impotent inaction. Picard would do the same, sacrifice himself to save one of his crew, but it was not sensible. He should let Worf take the woman's place.  
"It is not permitted," Galt said flatly. "But Captain, since you assume responsibility for the actions of your people, you will take the punishment. Turn around."  
Kirk had already moved to the centre of the arena, and now, reluctantly, he obeyed, allowing Lars to tie his hands instead of Uhura's. The lieutenant was ushered back to one of the benches by Kirk's thrall. She looked stunned.  
Chekov was muttering furiously to Ro, who was shaking her head. Worf could imagine the conversation. No, there is no way out of this. Galt controls the collars and therefore controls us all. Given the power of the collars, Worf reflected, it was amazing that there had been any need to discipline the reluctant thrall in the first place. Perhaps someone, these providers maybe, simply found the collars a rather clinical, boring way to force obedience.  
In which case, they might find the new arrivals even more entertaining than they had anticipated.  
"It is less painful than the collar, Captain," Galt said, as if he'd heard Worf's thought. "You will be practice target. It is a shame to lose you, but it is worth it as an example to the others. And there are still three."  
Worf tensed. He hadn't realised that Galt intended to let Loog kill the captain. But it was already too late. The giant had moved on to the arena as everyone else backed away. He cracked his bull whip once against the stone floor, and moved in.  
Worf glanced around the arena again. The thralls seemed to have no idea that the Federation officers might try to aid their captain. Everyone had simply settled on the benches to spectate. Galt, though, was alert, his eyes moving from one thrall to the next, prepared for trouble. Knowing now that the collar could immobilise him before he had taken two steps, Worf forced himself to remain still. Tamoon, beside him, concentrated on the fight. Across the arena, Uhura and Kirk's thrall watched, each as anxious as the other. Chekov, in contrast, seemed fidgety and distracted. It took Worf a moment to work out why. Then he realised: Ensign Ro had one hand in sight, in her lap, and the other, as far as Worf could tell, was exploring the interior of Chekov's uniform tunic. The ensign's attention returned to the arena at each crack of the whip. He winced as it laid open first Kirk's tunic and then his skin.  
Kirk was tiring, Worf thought. Twice, he mis-timed a move, and the lash, instead of missing him completely, struck his back as he turned away. It left a long, bloody trail down from the captain's shoulder, almost to his waist... almost as far as the leather thong that bound his wrists.  
Worf scowled. He had underestimated the captain. This was, after all, James Kirk.  
Loog lumbered across the arena, trailing his net, and Kirk feinted towards him to invite another blow, but at that moment, Galt stopped them. "Hold. Rest interval, 15 trisecs."  
Kirk walked to where his thrall sat. Worf could imagine the effort it cost him not to stagger. The woman was taking something out of a pack.  
"He's pretty fast with that whip," Kirk said, sitting down.  
"This will strengthen you," his thrall explained, holding out a tall, narrow bottle. As Kirk put it to his lips, she continued, more quietly, "Loog's left eye is weak. Approach him from that side."  
Kirk nodded gratefully. Uhura tried to say something, but the thrall put out a hand, forbidding her to come any nearer to Kirk.  
"Resume places," Galt boomed.  
Kirk handed the bottle back and took his place on the marked arena again. Almost before Loog was ready, Kirk moved towards him, from his right side, and dodged away, earning the blow that finally snapped one half of the thong around his wrists. Now, he speeded up, keeping away from Loog in earnest. The thrall lumbered after him, looking confused by the change of tactics.  
"Hold!" The voice thundered out of nowhere. Everyone froze, even the Starfleet officers.  
"We hold, Provider One," Galt responded. He glided into the centre of the arena and seemed to wait expectantly.  
"Provider One bids three hundred quatloos for the newcomers," the voice announced. Worf frowned. Although distorted and disembodied, there was an eagerness and intensity about the voice that he thought he recognised.  
"Provider Two bids three hundred and fifty quatloos."  
Then a third voice joined in. "Provider Three, four hundred quatloos."  
"One thousand!"  
The Klingon watched the indignation growing on his colleagues faces.  
"One thousand and fifty!"  
"Two thousand!"  
The bidding halted, as if the participants were surprised themselves at their extravagance.  
"Two thousand quatloos are bid. Is there a challenge?" Galt inquired. He waited, but there was no response. "The newcomers have been vended to Provider One."  
Kirk strode forward into the ring, the tatters of his bindings hanging from his wrists. "We're free people. We belong to no one."  
"Such spirit," one of the disembodied voices commented. "I wager fifteen quatloos that he is untrainable."  
"Twenty quatloos that all four are untrainable."  
Then the first of the disappointed bidders broke ranks. "I wager five thousand quatloos that the newcomers will have to be destroyed!"  
Instinctively, the four new thralls drew closer together, facing outward.  
"Accepted," their new owner announced complacently. "Mark them, Galt."  
As the thrall-masters eyes glowed, Worf felt a brief heat in his collar, and saw Kirk's, Uhura's and Chekov's turn red.  
Galt was smiling at them. "You now bear the mark of a fine herd. But I warn you, any further disobedience now that you are fully-fledged thralls will be punishable by death."  
***  
"There must be something we can do!" Uhura was getting tired of the training exercise she'd been assigned, a somewhat unsophisticated program with weights. Her muscles weren't yet protesting, but she saw no reason to wear herself out for her owner's benefit.  
"You heard what that tsarist lick-spittle said," Chekov pointed out. "The Enterprise can't rescue us if we are dead." Like Uhura, the ensign was going through the motions, in his case with a set of bar bells. Lars and Laren were sitting on a bench at the side of the training chamber, gossiping. Laren looked up as if she'd just noticed the new thralls' lack of application.  
"He's got more muscles than you'd think," she said appreciatively of her drill-charge.  
"What are you talking about? I could eat six of him for breakfast."  
"You? You couldn't even..." The holo-Ro tipped her chin at Uhura.  
"She's vicious. I wasn't expecting that."  
"I wonder how Captain Kirk is getting on with our Shahna."  
Lars made a familiar masculine sound of envy ill-disguised as contempt, then turned his irritation on Chekov. "What are you smiling at, thrall?"  
"Nothing."  
"Are you getting tired, Chekov?" Laren enquired. "If you're not used to this kind of exercise, you're going to be horribly stiff tomorrow."  
Lars rolled his eyes.  
"I suppose I'm just going to have to give you a rub down."  
"You can't give him a rub down. Tamoon's monopolising the table, as usual."  
Worf chose that moment to stretch out his arms and sit up, pulling the towel Tamoon had given him around his hips. He tied it securely and walked across the floor of the gymnasium, with Tamoon following him, pushing wisps of hair back into place in her elaborate coiffure.  
"They must have a hair stylist somewhere on this planet," Uhura said thoughtfully. "Maybe we could get hold of some scissors... Is something wrong, Chekov?"  
The ensign jumped like a startled rabbit and dropped the bar bells to the floor. The paving cracked. "Wrong? What?"  
"You look as if you've never seen a half naked Klingon before."  
"Of course I have not... Are you saying you *have* seen a half naked Klingon before, Lieutenant?"  
"Well, maybe not in the flesh."  
"I just didn't know they had... so many..."  
Worf allowed Tamoon to hold another towel while he put his uniform back on behind it. He scratched under one arm, belched and adjusted the fastening on his ponytail.  
"...Bad manners," Chekov finished.  
"Are you ready for your 'massage', Chekov?" Laren asked. She winked slyly at Worf.  
"Yes, miss." He looked down at the bar bell, then obviously decided to leave it where it lay. "But perhaps I could have a shower first..."  
"Ensign!"  
Chekov managed not to jump this time. He frowned and looked at the Klingon. "What is it, Mister Worf?"  
"We should be planning an escape, not fraternising with the holo... with the natives."  
The ensign cast a significant look in Tamoon's direction, but Worf ignored him. "Has either of you identified any potential escape routes?"  
"No, sir," they chorused.  
"There are no escape routes," Laren repeated wearily.  
"And anyway, Captain Kirk will do something. If we escape, he won't be able to find us, and he'll be annoyed." Chekov shrugged amiably and started pulling off his tunic.  
Worf walked over to the ensign and tugged his tunic back into place. Chekov blinked at him, offended. "You heard what they said. It is not allowed to refuse a training exercise."  
"And what if Captain Kirk is dead, or lying injured?" the Klingon demanded. "What if the Enterprise was destroyed by the mechanism which the Providers used to bring us here? What do you propose to do then?"  
Chekov cast regretful looks at Laren and the table. "That would mean... it would be up to us to work out a method of escape."  
"Are we monitored constantly?" Uhura asked. She was mopping her face with a towel prior to sitting down next to Lars, who moved away from her nervously.  
"No," Laren told her. "I don't think so. There are only three Providers, and if their attention is elsewhere... well, sometimes it's possible to get away with stuff. Other times, you get caught all too quickly."  
"Do you think the Providers will be monitoring the captain and his training thrall?" Worf suggested.  
Ro nodded. "From what I've heard about Captain Kirk, he's probably putting on quite a show. I just hope he's considered what'll happen to Shahna if she's taken in by it."  
"How can you possibly have heard anything about Captain Kirk?" the Klingon demanded irritably. "Your behaviour..."  
"Oh, c'm'on, Worf. The man's notorious throughout the known galaxy. I was probably picked up from some trading post where he had a girlfriend, or six."  
Worf grunted. There was no question that people did occasionally disappear from outlying trading posts without explanation. It was usually put down to Orion pirates, or other smaller groups of opportunistic criminals, or even to trading post managers covering up accidents, but no one could say for sure that the Triskelion Providers hadn't been responsible.  
"You have keys to our cells," Uhura said. She turned to Lars and smiled in a friendly fashion. "Can I see a key, please?"  
He scowled at her. "Why should I risk getting into trouble to help you?"  
"Well... because I'd be grateful."  
"How grateful?" he asked quickly.  
"Not that grateful," a Russian accent interrupted before Uhura could answer.  
Lars looked up at the ensign who was suddenly standing next to him, looking down.  
"But consider," Chekov continued, " a world where instead of having one female selected for you, you could make your own choice. And a handsome, intelligent, *strong* man such as yourself, would be faced with... so many to choose from."  
"Would I? Do you have a large choice?"  
"All the women as I want, or have time for," Chekov said carelessly. "Why do you think I am in such a hurry to get away from here?"  
"Hm." Lars was definitely interested. He fished a small electronic device out of his jacket and handed it politely to Uhura.  
"Perfect!" she whispered, after examining it for a moment. "I thought that the control system that operates the collars must be able to deactivate these, and I was right. And you know what that means." She looked up at her colleagues, her eyes alight.  
"That you can use the circuitry in the keys to send messages to the control system," Chekov answered her.  
"If I want to. But more important, I can block any signal from the system to the collars. You two had better keep up the performance. We don't want to look too suspicious if they do spy on us."  
"C'mon, Chekov," Laren suggested agreeably. "How are you at wrestling in mud?" She nodded at a small tank of the substance in question, surrounded by a knee high wall in one corner of the gym.  
The ensign looked at it doubtfully. "In there?"  
"It's the only mud we have."  
"Go on, Chekov," Uhura encouraged. "It seems to be quite accepted for the rest of us to just watch if there's a fight happening. I can concentrate on this, and Lieutenant Worf can... watch."  
"I'd like to watch," Tamoon said complacently. Worf gave her a decidedly disapproving frown. "Oh, I'd like to watch you better, Worf, but if you get in the mud, I have to get in too, so I can't watch you whoever is in the mud..."  
"Very well," Worf decided. "Get in the mud, Ensign."  
"But..." Chekov objected. Then he realised Laren was stripping off all her garments, including the ridiculous 'training harness'. "Naked?"  
"Don't be stupid, Chekov," Laren said impatiently. "That would be dangerous. I can't see what I'm grabbing in the mud. Keep your shorts on."  
"Wrestling in mud is not exactly... a genuine combat skill," Worf complained diffidently, coming close to the tank.  
"Just how naive are you people?" Laren exploded. "Why do you think the Providers always pair males with females? To even up the odds? Or to add an extra... dimension to the conflict?"  
"I assumed they appreciate the pornographic possibilities," Worf said, nodding. "They are not honorable."  
Laren stepped cautiously into the thigh deep sludge and held out a hand to her sparring partner, who was fighting to keep a smile off his face.  
"It is... slippery," he said, finding his footing on whatever lay beneath the mud.  
"Isn't it just." Laren shoved and he toppled, but he grabbed at her arm and pulled her over on top of him. They both came up spluttering and laughing.  
"Come here, you terrible woman!"  
She slithered out of his grasp, but the viscosity of the mud prevented her evading him completely. They went down again, this time in a close embrace.  
Uhura was barely paying attention, her long nails busy picking apart the key. "Lars, or any of you..."  
Tamoon sat down next to her. "Yes?"  
"Who repairs things when they break down, things like locks, and collars?"  
The alien woman shrugged. "The Providers give us everything we need. If a collar malfunctions, a new one is provided."  
"Can they make anything?"  
Worf came to stand behind them, keeping his eyes on the two bodies that occasionally emerged from the mud with splutters and squeals. "What are you planning, Lieutenant Uhura?"  
"I'm not sure. There are only four of us, eight including the natives, if Captain Kirk has persuaded Shahna to see things his way..."  
"Is there any doubt about that?" Chekov asked, lunging for the side of the mudbath, only to be dragged back under the surface by his ankles.  
Uhura shook her head. "I'm not sure yet if it makes any difference. These Providers abducted us over a distance of light years, yet here, on the planet itself, they use thralls with keys, and this fairly primitive remote signalling technology, to control us. Why?"  
Worf looked bad-tempered. "How can we answer that? We haven't even seen them."  
"Precisely!" The communications officer held out the key to her drill-thrall. "Thanks, Lars. I'm guessing that they have a fairly rigid technology, and a limited physical capacity to interact with their thralls or the rest of reality. I think when they see the collars don't work, they'll just give us new ones."  
"And when that doesn't work?" Worf asked.  
"They'll threaten to kill us," Uhura admitted realistically. "But I'm not at all sure that they can do that."  
"I've seen them do it," Lars insisted.  
"But they used the collars, right?" Uhura swore under her breath in Swahili. "Damn it. I just need a piece of wire, about two centimetres long, not too fine..."  
Chekov pulled himself out of the mud with a satisfying sucking noise and padded over the floor to where he'd dropped his uniform. He upended one boot and brought Uhura his earring. "Is this any use?"  
She looked up at him and a grin spread across her face. He was more chocolate coloured than she was. The mud seemed to have a sticky texture, so that although he left a trail of footprints behind him, it was adhering to his skin in a fairly even fashion. "That is exactly what I need, Ensign. If I damage it, I'll let you have one of mine."  
"I definitely need a shower now," Chekov announced.  
"Hold on!" Laren sat down on the rim of the bath and wiped a handful of mud off her face. "Don't waste it." She beckoned him back to her. When he obliged, she took hold of one of his hands and began licking the 'mud' off his fingers.  
"Best... Belgian... couverture..." she explained, between licks.  
"Oh, my," Uhura said enviously, before returning to her work. "He gets all the really good assignments."  
Worf looked from Laren and Chekov to Uhura and back again. "Chocolate? That tank is full of chocolate?"  
"Wesley Crusher programmed it," Laren explained, moving to Chekov's other hand. "I think he was hoping to share it with someone in particular, but I never persuaded him to tell me who it was." She shrugged. "I thought it was pretty... juvenile, but no one ever deleted it. So here it is."  
Worf's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I will speak to Cadet Crusher when he next has leave on the Enterprise." He turned to Tamoon. "This training scenario is ridiculous."  
She looked back at him blankly. "This training interval ends shortly. Then there will be a nourishment interval."  
Uhura finished with the earring and handed it back to Chekov, who absently used his free hand to slip it back into his ear. Worf wondered whether to remind him of his captain's order, but decided it wasn't his job to act as an aide memoire to distracted ensigns.  
"It is like playing poker in a shuttlecraft," Chekov said.  
Worf scowled at him. Nothing about this scenario reminded him of the senior officers' weekly poker game, which the Klingon had always considered a dignified pastime, and the nearest he'd probably get to mortal combat while belonging to Starfleet.  
"Yes?" Uhura prompted.  
"When you have to pilot a senior officer, and you always seem to wait for them for hours before they are ready, you take a pack of cards. You can't do anything else, so you play to pass the time. If you could do something else, you would. It is sufficiently interesting to stop you falling asleep... but... not that interesting. These Providers..." Chekov waved vaguely at the nearest wall, as if their abductors were hidden behind it. "...Why don't they do something else?"  
"They are aliens. It is a dangerous mistake to attribute human motivations to aliens," Worf warned.  
Chekov was now removing the chocolate from Laren's wrists and the crooks of her elbows. He looked up. "What do Klingons do while waiting for senior officers to come on board a shuttle?"  
Worf narrowed his eyes. "They do often gamble, however..."  
"Let's assume he's right," Uhura said decisively. "Where do you think we'll find the Providers? Do you know?" She turned her attention to Lars and Tamoon.  
Both shook their heads defeatedly.  
"I've been... oooh, do that some more, Chekov... I've been everywhere in this complex and I haven't see any sign of them. They could be... mmm..."  
"Ensign Chekov, stop that and let her answer my question!" Uhura snapped.  
"Yes, ma'am," Chekov said grumpily, but Laren planted her clean hands on her chocolate coated hips and glared.  
"Look, lady, do you want us thralls on your side, or don't you?"  
"Well, yes, I do. But it's distracting. So where do you think they are? Nearby?"  
"I really don't know. There are service conduits under the floors. None of them go laterally beyond the boundaries of the complex, but some go down. I haven't tried to follow them. They were too small."  
"Then the Providers might be underneath the complex," Uhura concluded. "In some kind of... stasis, maybe. Monitoring their thralls for their own amusement. When the captain gets back..."  
"If he's not dead or lying injured," Chekov interrupted.  
"...When he gets back..." Uhura continued firmly.  
"If the Enterprise finds us, the Providers could just transfer the whole crew down here and we would be trapped," Chekov pointed out. "Even if they are totally helpless in other ways, we know they can do that."  
Uhura bit her lip as she considered this objection.  
"The ensign is correct," Worf declared, winning a suspicious frown from Chekov. "We have to destroy the Providers' transporter ability, or devise a warning beacon, as a priority."  
"Why the warning beacon?" Uhura demanded impatiently. "If they want the crew..."  
"There is no evidence that they do," Worf interrupted, "but they want us, and they can prevent a rescue attempt only by neutralising the Enterprise. If they don't try to rescue us, the ship is probably safe, but I assume Commander Spock will attempt a rescue."  
"He will," Uhura agreed. "Let's cut off the links that run through those service conduits. With luck, that will prevent the Providers detecting the Enterprise if she shows up in orbit. If you and Chekov let Laren show you how to get into the conduits, Lars and I will go search for raw materials for a beacon."  
"You have forgotten me," Tamoon said unhappily.  
"Not at all," Uhura lied. "We need you to..."  
"She will accompany us," Worf interrupted. "When Galt or the Providers realise what we are doing, they may set the other thralls on us. She will be useful."  
The woman's round face lit up. She picked up a short sword from a rack on the wall. "I will defend you with my life, Worf."  
"And I you," the Klingon declared seriously.  
Laren rolled her eyes. "Come on, sweetheart," she sighed to Chekov. "I'll watch your butt if you watch mine."  
***  
Half an hour later, Chekov backed out of a conduit, rubbing at his scraped elbows. "I should have kept the chocolate for lubrication," he complained.  
Laren laughed. "Did you cut it?"  
"Yes." Chekov handed back her sword and she sheathed it without commenting on the nicks he'd taken out of the blade while hacking through the cables.  
"There has been no reaction so far," Worf reported from his post a little way down the corridor. "If they are now isolated and powerless..."  
"We are not isolated, or powerless."  
Worf blinked. He, and Chekov, had been transported to an underground chamber. Of Tamoon and Laren there was no sign. At the chamber's centre was a low, circular table, on which were placed three copies of Data's head. Only one was looking in his direction. Its hair was grey with dust and one eye was blank and staring.  
"I am Provider One. You will restore the disrupted link immediately." The movements of its mouth didn't quite coordinate with the speech which reverberated around the cave.  
"We will not!" Chekov stepped forward out of the shadows on the other side of the table.  
"As you can see," another of the dilapidated heads continued, "your plan has not worked. You have not succeeded in cutting us off from the surface. The conduit you damaged contained only redundant links."  
Chekov shrugged. "You are lying."  
"I wonder if you really believe that," the third head said. "I wager fifty quatloos that he will agree to repair the conduit."  
"One hundred quatloos that he will die before he agrees," the first head said.  
"Accepted."  
Chekov looked apprehensively across the table at Worf. The Klingon just stared back at him.  
There was a moment of silence, then Kirk materialised. He seemed to need only a fraction of a second to orientate himself. "What's going on, Lieutenant?"  
"These, Captain, are the Providers. We have disabled one, or all, of their links to the surface. They are attempting to intimidate Ensign Chekov into repairing the damage."  
"Don't cooperate with them, Ensign," Kirk ordered immediately.  
"Chekov." Like the other two, the voice of Provider Three was a caricature of Data's, dripping evil. The ensign ignored it, but it continued. "Chekov, I will kill your captain if you do not obey me."  
The ensign merely raised his chin a fraction and continued to stare at the opposite wall of the cavern.  
"Even if you believe that you have disrupted our ability to communicate with the surface, Kirk still wears the collar. You have ten trisecs to agree..."  
Chekov swallowed.  
"Wait!" Worf said. "He will agree. If necessary, I will order him..."  
Chekov shook his head determinedly. "I won't do it. We are not thralls. We won't fight for your amusement. We would rather die."  
"Don't listen to him," Kirk said decisively. "We need to talk..."  
"The wager is in place," the second head objected. "Interference is not acceptable. The terms of the wager were agreed."  
"The wager is invalid," Worf said, "Since Provider Three can kill Chekov at will, his bet is meaningless."  
The three heads turned and looked at each other, then they all twisted to face the Klingon. "A wager is binding. None of us will interfere. That would make the wager void. There would be no purpose to the bet, no satisfaction in winning." The second head smiled complacently. "Chekov?"  
"Go to the devil."  
"This is wrong," the third head broke in, agitated. "He should not be willing to see one of his fellows die. Kirk and Uhura were willing to give their lives to protect mere strangers, disobedient thralls. What is wrong with this one? I thought by threatening his captain, I would ensure his immediate obedience. Someone is cheating. The one called Worf is correct. The wager is invalid. I withdraw from the game."  
"No. The wager is binding." The third head fixed his fellows with a steely gaze. "Provider One has wagered fifty quatloos that Chekov will repair the conduit, and Provider Two has bid one hundred quatloos that he will die rather than obey us. I have accepted the bets. No interference is permitted. The game must be played out."  
Chekov folded his arms. The heads sat there, unblinking.  
"We seem to have reached a stalemate," Provider One said unexpectedly. "I concede defeat, Three. The ten trisecs I allowed have expired. Clearly, this thrall believes that we will not, or cannot, kill his captain."  
Kirk's hand flew to his collar. "Have you managed to deactivate these?"  
"Yes, Captain," Worf confirmed. "I would not have permitted Ensign Chekov to endanger you."  
"However, your ship is in danger, Captain," Provider One continued. "You have seen that we still have the ability to transport living beings. We will bring your entire crew here, unless you order your underlings to repair the damage they have done. Unmanned, your ship will founder, or be lost. No one will come to rescue you. You may resist us, but without the replicators which we control, you will quickly starve. This is not a fertile world. You will not permit that. We saw that you protected the thralls. You will not sacrifice your ship and crew. Repair the damage and we will return you to your ship. You may go free."  
"And the thralls?" Kirk asked.  
"The thralls are no concern of yours. Consider your ship."  
"I don't think I need to. You've left my communications specialist loose on the surface. I'm sure that by now she will have devised some method of warning Starfleet about your cowardly little game. And if you were able to resist the might of Starfleet, would you really be gambling for penny stakes on this... unfertile world?"  
"She can't. It's not possible."  
"How sure are you, Provider One? Enough to gamble the freedom of the thralls?"  
"Bring her down here, Two. Immediately!" the first head snapped.  
Worf suddenly surged forward. "No. The wager has been made. You gambled that she was incapable of warning Starfleet. The game must be played out."  
"I did not agree a stake..."  
"You had the opportunity," Kirk pointed out, "but you tried to fold. Our freedom is already on the table. The least you can do is match it with freedom for the thralls."  
"Accepted... she cannot do it... it is impossible," the three heads muttered ill-temperedly.  
Kirk shrugged. "We shall see."  
There was silence. Chekov shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Worf saw Kirk notice the Bajoran bangle, and saw Chekov realise that the captain had seen it. The Klingon suddenly regretted not mentioning it earlier.  
"Mister Chekov?"  
"Yes, Captain?"  
"Once this mission is over, I don't want to see that earring again. Understood?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Does the lieutenant have any help up there?"  
"Our drill thralls were assisting us, Captain."  
Kirk nodded approvingly. "How did you manage that?"  
"We did what seemed necessary, Captain."  
"I hope it wasn't too unpleasant."  
"Not at all, Captain."  
Just at that moment, Kirk's communicator trilled. He pulled it off his belt, but hesitated before opening it. "I'd also prefer it if you washed behind your ears before coming on duty in future, Ensign. Kirk here."  
Spock's voice filled the rock chamber with reassuring coolness. "Captain, we have tracked an energy beam of extremely high intensity to this planet, and are now in orbit. Are all the members of the landing party with you?"  
"Lieutenant Uhura is on the surface, probably directly above us. Mister Worf and Mister Chekov are right here. Hold on a moment, Spock. Provider One, you seem to have lost."  
"Indeed, Captain. We will honour our wager. The thralls will be freed, and we will divert such resources as we have to ensuring that they survive and flourish."  
"I'm sure you'll find that to be an even greater challenge than the game you've been playing."  
"Perhaps." The head sounded less than certain, but resigned.  
"Chekov, Mister Spock will return you to the surface. Repair the conduit, but make sure at least one of the thralls knows how to cut it again."  
The ensign nodded and dematerialised. Kirk turned back to the Providers. "Before I go, I would like to say goodbye to Shahna."  
"Very well, Captain. And Worf and Uhura may take leave of their drill thralls also."  
The two Starfleet officers found themselves standing on the gaming arena, surrounded by thralls who seemed to have no idea what to do with themselves. They were all silent. Worf quickly spotted Tamoon in the throng and moved to her side.  
"Worf, what is happening? The cells are unlocked, but the nourishment slots are not functioning..." Her eyes were round and wild. He could smell fear in the air.  
"You are free. The Providers will continue to feed you, but you will learn to grow your own food, and fend for yourselves."  
Tamoon didn't seem to understand him, but he could see Shahna now, moving hesitantly toward Kirk.  
"We are free? As you are free?" she asked. She sounded every bit as terrified as Tamoon.  
Worf looked across at Kirk, who shook his head, clearly worried that the thralls had merely been liberated like sheep, let loose to run out onto the highway and die.  
"Fellow citizens of Triskelion, today we are free!"  
At the ringing declaration Kirk turned, to see Lars and Laren, with Chekov and Uhura flanking them, emerge from the entrance to one of the tunnels.  
"Take off your collars!" Laren suited action to words, and dashed her own collar to the ground. A gasp of wonder went up from the crowd, and the thralls first touched their collars with timid hands, then, when no punishment followed, ripped them off and threw them down. Tamoon and Shahna shot anxious glances at their former pupils, then without a further backward glance, turned to join their new leaders.  
Meanwhile, Chekov and Uhura threaded their way through the crowd, until the landing party were standing together.  
"Did Mister Spock find us, or did you find him, Lieutenant?" Kirk asked.  
"A little of both, Captain."  
"How did you manage to get the upper hand without the Providers noticing?"  
Worf cleared his throat. "We believe they were... distracted, sir."  
A smile spread over Kirk's face. "I do my best, Mister Worf. Spock, we're ready to beam up."  
As they 'materialised' back on the Enterprise, Worf instructed the computer to freeze the program, and stood for a moment looking at his holographic colleagues.  
He wondered who had incorporated Data's head into the scenario, and whether Wesley Crusher had really had anyone... special... in mind when programming the chocolate bath.  
"Computer, transfer holocharacter Tamoon to program Worf Epsilon, also the... the chocolate bath."  
"Processing. Do you wish to resume the program?"  
Worf had already been here longer than he intended, but he felt a resolution was needed. "Yes. Delete holocharacter Kirk, and resume program."  
Chekov and Uhura unfroze. Chekov's hand instantly went up to pluck out the Bajoran earring.  
"Ensign, Lieutenant," Worf said formally. "It has been an honour to serve with you."  
"Thank you," Uhura responded graciously, giving Chekov a sharp jab with her elbow.  
The ensign squared his shoulders and nodded arrogantly. "I shall look forward to meeting you again, Lieutenant Worf, in battle."  
"It will be a pleasure," Worf replied, with a low growl. "Computer, end program."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Fanart) Training Session](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438969) by [Mylochka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylochka/pseuds/Mylochka)


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